


who dares do more

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Series: something wicked [8]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Implied Murder, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, dark magic au, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Post-Hogwarts life isn't turning out to be all that Rhys had hoped for. Commiserating with his best friend over a beer will help, right?





	who dares do more

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after [our brand become our calling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11649576) and before [my hands are of your color](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11628372).

_THEN_

 

The news spreads through Hogwarts like the fire through the neighborhood. 73 muggles dead, and still counting; the muggle authorities and the Ministry both put it down to a gas leak and a strong wind, but the pictures in the Daily Prophet tell a different story: firefighters struggling to put out a blaze that seems to repel all efforts to extinguish it. _Fiendfyre_ , the whispers say, although the Ministry refuses to confirm or deny it, putting out a single statement and barring entry to the press.

 _The Ministry regret the loss of life at the incident in Little Addington_ , the statement reads. _Former Auror Jack Lawrence will be found swiftly and be brought to justice. All further inquiries shall be forwarded to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

The rest of the year at Hogwarts is - strange. The Gryffindors are unusually subdued, one of their own most famous graduates now on the run, branded a murderer and a traitor. After a few pointed suggestions from Vaughn, Rhys moves his Jack Lawrence collection under his bed, rather than proudly displayed on his bookshelf.

He keeps Jack’s card, but he moves it to his copy of _Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts,_ and stashes it under his pillow. If anyone asks, he can say that he’s hoping the contents will seep into his head while he’s sleeping.

He fingers the card late at night, after the others have gone to sleep, hidden behind the pages of the textbook. Rhys had read up on this kind of charm after Jack had given it to him; in the rare event of the card owner’s death, the _Magickal Communications_ textbook had said, the words would disappear, leaving the card blank and inert.

The strong cursive script is still heavy and dark against the cardstock, and tingles faintly against Rhys’ fingertips.

Rhys traces his finger over the lines of Jack’s name, and wonders.

The final few months of school are a whirlwind of N.E.W.T.s and graduation preparations. Rhys crams for the former and ghosts through the latter, earning high enough scores to guarantee consideration for the Auror apprenticeship program and feeling strangely empty with no one to share it with. Except Vaughn, of course; but Vaughn’s busy with preparing for his accounting internship and managing his own family obligations. Rhys hates to intrude, even though Vaughn insists it’s not an imposition.

The card tucked away the book under his pillow still tingles every time he touches it.

He should be happy. He _is_ happy. Everything is lining up for him; graduating with honors, acceptance into the Auror apprenticeship program, his first little flat - small and cramped, but all his.

But somehow post-Hogwarts life doesn’t have the _luster_ he had thought it would. His apprenticeship is mostly paperwork - more paperwork than Rhys had ever imagined was possible - and Rhys has yet to actually get out into the field.

“There’ll be time for that,” Huxley had said, dropping off another stack of stale case logs on Rhys’ desk. Rhys had picked up the top one gingerly; it appeared to be stuck to the file underneath it with some sort of ominous green-grey fuzz. “You so eager to dodge curses? Wait ‘til you’re married, haha.” Rhys had barely managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes; that was the third time Huxley had made that “joke,” and he didn’t appear to be getting tired of it anytime soon.

Maybe it’s the fact that he _knows_ he’s never going to get to work with Jack, now, that’s making this all seem so - pedestrian. And maybe he had, once or twice - or nearly every night, but that’s not really important, is it - daydreamed of being taken under the wing of _the_ Jack Lawrence, of learning the ropes from him and rising to greatness just like he had -

It doesn’t matter. It’s not going to happen now.

He tries to explain it to Vaughn over a beer one day, after work at the little cafe down the street from the Ministry. This is pretty much the only place he sees Vaughn anymore; Vaughn’s accounting firm, although it contracts with the Ministry, is located across town, and Rhys’ current project has him deep down in the Archives with little chance to escape during the day.

“Huxley’s making me reverse-alphabetize old files,” Rhys says, and Vaughn makes a sympathetic noise. “He won’t even let me use magic - says doing it by hand disciplines the mind, or something.” Vaughn nods commiseratingly and Rhys sighs. “I bet no one ever made Jack file moldy old reports.”

Vaughn glances around, and Rhys winces. He hadn’t meant to - it’s not _verboten_ , exactly, to say Jack’s name anymore, but it’s not exactly _encouraged_ either.

“Yeah, and look where that got him.” Vaughn’s voice is low, pitched only for their table. Rhys appreciates the necessity, but it still kind of _grates_ , the way Vaughn is so quick to forget all the good Jack had done. “On the run, with all of his cases open for reconsideration - do you know what a nightmare that is for us? They sent us all his old files, had me combing through expense reports, and -”

“Wait, wait. Back up.” Rhys feels the beginning of something cold in the pit of his stomach. “His cases are open for reconsideration? _All_ of them?”

Vaughn blinks at him. “Uh, yeah? I can’t believe you hadn’t heard - isn’t your desk right in the Auror bullpen?”

“I’ve been reverse-alphabetizing,” Rhys says faintly, but now he wonders - about suddenly hushed conversations on the rare occasion he does make it back to his desk,  about sidelong glances in the hallway - and he’s almost certain he knows but he has to ask anyway. “Are they reopening DuVall’s case?”

“I’m sorry, bro.” Vaughn’s face is the only answer Rhys needs. “I thought you knew.”

Rhys looks down at his hands, wrapped white-knuckled around the bottle, and breathes slowly.

“Well.” It’s not really a laugh, but it’s close enough. “I guess it’s lucky there’s not enough left of him to push for acquittal, huh?”

There’s a hesitant silence from the other side of the table, and Rhys looks up.

“Vaughn.” Vaughn won’t meet his eyes, picking at the label on his bottle. “You don’t - don’t tell me you think that monster deserved to _live_.”

Vaughn sighs. “Look - I know it was your parents, man, and I’m sorry, but -” the coldness in Rhys’ gut spreads “- the guy never even went before the Wizengamot, and life in Azkaban’s _worse_ than death, they say -”

Rhys doesn’t hear the rest of it over the rushing in his ears. He can’t - if this is what _Vaughn_ thinks, his best friend, who stood next to Rhys at his parents’ funeral, who _knows -_

If _Vaughn_ could be this wrong about Jack, what must the rest of the world think?

Nothing moves, but it’s like Rhys can feel the world pivot, resettling into something that looks exactly the same but feels entirely different.

“I have to go,” he says, standing and digging for his wallet.

“Rhys, wait - I’m sorry, I didn’t -” Vaughn looks stricken and Rhys smiles gently, genuinely.

“No, it’s all right. You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I just need to - think about it, okay? See you tomorrow?” Vaughn looks reluctant but he doesn’t protest, and Rhys pats his shoulder as he leaves.

There’s nothing to think about. Vaughn had done him a favor, really - and Rhys can’t help but feel grateful, for helping Rhys out one last time, even if Vaughn doesn’t know it. Rhys feels strangely light on the way home, even through the crowding on the transit and the piles of rubbish waiting for pickup on the walk back to his flat. He’s got _purpose_ , now, and that sense of purpose propels him up the stairs at almost a run, into his unit, and straight to his bookshelf to find his copy of _Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts._ He pulls Jack’s card out and traces careful fingers over the front.

The script tingles against his fingertips.

Jack hadn’t told him how this thing worked, and the research Rhys had done had been only semi conclusive, but the important pieces seem to be contact and _intent_ . A clarity of purpose; and Rhys _is_ seeing clearly now, clearer than he’ has in a long time. Rhys presses the card to his lips briefly, concentrates, and says, “Jack Lawrence.”

For a long moment, nothing happens.

Then the card in his hand bursts into flame: a clear blue fire that has no warmth at all, dancing over his palm with barely more than a tickle. The card combusts, throwing sparks into the air that spin with purpose, resolving into a face.

Into _Jack’s_ face.

“Who the hell are _you_ ,” he says curiously, brows drawn down, eyes raking Rhys from head to foot and Rhys feels stupid, _so_ stupid, because of all the scenarios he’d imagined somehow he’d never thought that Jack wouldn’t _remember_ him.

“Wait, wait - don’t tell me,” Jack’s face says, expression clearing. “The LeConte kid, right? Rhys. Freshly accepted into the Auror Apprenticeship program, if I’m not mistaken,” and Rhys blinks a bit. How - how had Jack known that? “So tell me,” and here Jack’s voice slides into something a little darker. “What can I do for one of the Ministry’s finest?”

“I -” Rhys stumbles for a moment, because he hadn’t really had a plan beyond this point. “I want to help you.”

Jack stares at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing.

“Oh man, Tassister’s not even _trying_ now, is he - okay kid, time to run back and tell your boss that if he wants to put together a trap he’s going to have to try a _little_ fucking harder than -”

“No, I - I’m _serious,_ ” Rhys hisses, panicked - because the _other_ think he hadn’t been prepared for was Jack not _believing_ him.

“Sure you are, kid, and I’m the Minister. Now -”

“I _am_ .” Rhys cuts Jack off again and Jack’s eyebrows draw down into a scowl, but Rhys has to - he has to keep Jack talking, has to convince Jack _somehow_ that he means it. Rhys can’t go back to the bullshit at the Ministry. He _can’t_.

“Do you know what they’re doing?” Rhys blurts out. “They’re reopening all of your cases. _All_ of them. Because they’re too - they’re too _fucking_ stupid to see that you’re _right_ , right about everything. Every one of your marks got what was coming to them,” Rhys says, echoes of a conversation in the Hogwarts Trophy Room swirling in his ears. “The Ministry is just too stupid - too _weak_ to see it.”

Jack watches him carefully, face wreathed in blue and floating inches from Rhys’ face, and Rhys can’t tell what he’s thinking at all.

“There’s a Portkey on the corner of 246th and Langdon,” Jack says finally. “Looks like an old boot. Bring me something useful before midnight tonight, and I’ll _think_ about taking you on. Provisionally.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Rhys breathes, but Jack’s face has already winked out, leaving him alone in his dark apartment.

Something useful. That means something from the Ministry, almost certainly - but what could Rhys bring Jack that he would find _useful_?

Rhys looks around his tiny flat. There’s not much in it; not much he’ll miss. He grabs a change of clothing, some socks, some toiletries; whatever will fit in his satchel, as well as a heavy jacket and a scarf against the cold. He lingers over the photo of his parents, but eventually leaves it in its frame, sitting on his dresser.

Better to not leave any signs that he won’t be coming back. Just in case anyone comes looking.

Something useful, something useful - Rhys keeps turning the phrase over and over in his mind as he heads back toward the Ministry, the glow of the streetlights fighting against the dusky gloom. An artifact? He doesn’t have access to those, doesn’t know how to disable the alarm if he sets it off. Information? Rhys doesn’t know what Jack needs, and showing up with something useless seems almost as bad as showing up empty-handed.

This is a test, clearly - but Rhys can figure this out, can come up with something that will make Jack proud. That will make him see how _useful_ Rhys can be.

He figures he’ll start with the Auror bullpen; if they’re trying to track Jack’s old movements, like Vaughn had implied, maybe they’re trying to predict where he’ll go next. Maybe there’ll be something on someone’s desk he can use.

The Ministry is practically empty at this hour, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement only has a few desks still lit, a few individuals with more endurance than most still pushing paperwork. Rhys avoids them, keeping his stride brisk and purposeful, and no one looks up at him as he passes. He winds a path toward the back, toward where he had seen a cluster of Aurors he didn’t know huddled around a long table before Huxley had dropped another stack of mold-ridden files in his arms and sent him back down to the Archives. It might be nothing, but at least it’s a place to start.

It’s not nothing.

It’s - it’s a map, it looks like, with different colored dots on it. There’s a large red dot over Little Addington, and other red, purple, blue, and gray ones scattered around. Rhys studies the map, trying to memorize the colors and locations; he recognizes most of the gray dots as Jack’s old case locations, but he can’t make any pattern resolve out of the other colors. He touches the large red dot hesitantly, and the other red dots illuminate, red lines spreading and connecting in shifting patterns. He pulls his hand away, and the glow fades, the colors dulling again.

They _are_ trying to track Jack’s movements. Rhys doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking at, but he knows enough to know that this is probably what Jack meant by _useful_.

A quick glance over his shoulder shows no one looking in his direction, so Rhys furtively rolls the map up, careful not to crease it in case that breaks the enchantment. A quick search underneath the table reveals a map case, and Rhys slides the map in and caps it. He turns, prize in hand, ready to make a quick escape -

And comes face to face with Huxley.

Huxley’s not quickest on the draw but there’s no way to disguise what Rhys was doing; Huxley’s eyes dart between the empty table behind Rhys and the case in Rhys’ hands. The beginnings of a frown crease his forehead, and several thoughts run through Rhys’ head all at once.

He _might_ be able to bullshit Huxley with some story about being asked to fetch the map for the Minister, or another Auror.

It is, however, late at night when hardly anyone is working - and the other Aurors, Huxley included, have apparently been taking pains to keep Rhys away from this project.

Rhys could probably _obliviate_ Huxley; that would at least give him a head start.

Or.

Huxley’s just opening his mouth but he barely even gets out “ _What -_ ” before Rhys reaches for his wand and draws it in one smooth motion, stepping close and pressing the tip over Huxley’s heart.

“ _Imperio_ ,” Rhys murmurs softly, and holds his breath.

He’s never cast this spell before. He’s not even supposed to _know_ it, not officially; the Unforgivable Curses are part of advanced Auror training, and even then candidates are officially taught only to defend against, not to cast. Officially.

 _Unofficially_ , word had circulated, even in the short time that Rhys had been there, that the Minister would perhaps be - more _forgiving_ of an Unforgivable Curse than official policy might dictate. If the circumstances were right. So Rhys had studied up, just in case.

And it occurs to Rhys that while a map is useful, and Auror who knows how to _read_ the map is exponentially _more_ useful.

The small flash of arcane light is shielded by Huxley’s bulk, and the spark of anger drains from Huxley’s eyes, replaced by a faint milky cloud as his body relaxes all at once. Rhys waits for a shout from elsewhere in the room, for an alarm to sound, for _something_ \- but there’s nothing, just the scratch of quill from further up in the room and Huxley’s quiet breathing.

It worked. It _worked_.

Rhys feels giddy, but he squashes it back down. He’s not out of the woods yet.

“We’re going to leave the Ministry,” he says quietly, tucking his wand back away. “You’ll go first. Act naturally; don’t call for help, don’t signal anyone. If anyone asks, you’re uh - you’re taking me out to get hammered. Understand?”

Huxley nods slowly, and Rhys grins in relief.

“All right.” He nods toward the door. “Let’s go.” Huxley turns, and Rhys follows.

It works better than he could have even hoped. Rhys follows in Huxley’s footsteps like a good little apprentice, and they get exactly one glance on their way out, from a tired-looking witch laboring over what looks like Form 67-A. Rhys winces in sympathy and waves, and she gives a desultory wave back, returning to “Incident involving Muggle Public Transportation.”

At Rhys’ murmured direction, Huxley turns left outside the Ministry, heading for the street corner Jack had specified. A quick bit of rummaging reveals an old boot underneath a pile of plastic bags, and Rhys grasps Huxley’s wrist tightly as he touches the boot with the other hand. The world spins around them in a nauseating blur, and when the ground solidifies underneath Rhys’ feet again they’re in a forest clearing, ringed by dark evergreens and blanketed by the hush of the deep woods.

He sees the wands a second too late, just as he hears the chorus of “ _Immobulus_.”

The charms hit both Rhys and Huxley square in the chest, and Rhys hears Huxley topple to the ground to his left, but his attention is bound up entirely the the man pushing through the fierce-looking woman and bear of a man pointing their wands at the space where Rhys and Huxley had appeared. Jack plants his hands on his hips, inspecting Rhys curiously, then nods at the woman on his right. She gestures, and as the spell binding Rhys vanishes he pitches forward to his knees, unprepared for the sudden release. The map case flies from his hands and rolls to Jack’s feet.

“Well, it is before midnight, so points for that,” Jack says, and his voice send something warm and dangerous up Rhys’ spine, even on his hands and knees in the dirt. “But I didn’t say ‘bring your friends,’ and let me tell you, kiddo, this tag-along is not helping your case for this _not_ being a really shitty trap.”

“He can read that,” Rhys says, nodding at the map case in the dirt. He shifts to his knees, sitting back on his heels, but he figures it might be safer to stay down for the moment.

Jack raises his eyebrows, but he steps back and nods to the man on his left, who steps forward and picks up the case. He runs his wand over it - checking for charms, Rhys realizes - before popping it open with one large hand. He unrolls the map inside, studying it for a moment before shrugging and turning it around to show Jack.

“The gray dots are places you worked as an Auror,” Rhys says, flushing a little as Jack glances at him, eyebrows raised. “I don’t know what the other colors mean. But he does,” he says, nodding at Huxley.

“Hm,” is all Jack says, studying the map. He touches the purple dots and they illuminate. He glances significantly at the woman next to him. She leans in, studying the shifting network of dots and lines, and curses. Jack pulls his hand away and turns back to Rhys, folding his hands behind his back.

“I don’t imagine he volunteered,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “What’s he going to say when Wilhelm lifts the _immobulus_ charm?”

“Uh - whatever I want him to,” Rhys says. “I used the Imperius Curse,” he adds at Jack’s blank look.

Jack stares at him impassively for a few moments, then laughs, loud and sharp enough to make Rhys start.

“I like your style, kiddo,” Jack says, moving forward. “No, don’t get up,” he says as Rhys shifts. He kneels on the forest floor, taking Rhys’ chin in one hand, and Rhys couldn’t look away from those mismatched eyes if he tried.

“You know he’s never going back home to a wife and children and blah blah blah, right, kid? I remember you were a fan of my work. “Jack’s grin could cut glass. “So you know what bringing him along means.”

Rhys swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Jack looks at him for another long moment. “Interesting,” he says, and Rhys would give _anything_ to know what that means, to know what about him is _interesting_ to Jack, so he can do it again -

But Jack is already getting back up, hauling Rhys up by the shoulder, and Rhys’ head and stomach roil, protesting the sudden movement so soon after the Portkey ordeal. When it clears Jack is rolling up the map again, sliding it back into its case.

“Nisha, Wilhelm - take immobilized and stupid here back to camp and get what you can out of him. I’ll swing by later.” He tosses the map case to the woman - Nisha, presumably - who catches it and swings it over her shoulder. “Rhys here - he and I are going to have a long talk about the future, aren’t we, kiddo?”

Rhys looks at Wilhelm and Nisha, already disappearing into the woods, floating Huxley’s body behind them. He looks back up at Jack, standing over him with his hand outstretched and a wide grin on his face.

He spares a single thought for Vaughn, for his solitary apartment, for the few acquaintances he knew to say hello to on his way to and from work.

Then he says “yes,” and closes his hand around Jack’s.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a collaboration between [scootsaboot](http://scootsaboot.tumblr.com) and [myself](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com).


End file.
